"So where are you from originally?" Grant asks Scout, unwrapping his sandwich and squinting against the glare. "You don't sound local."
"Kind of everywhere." She picks at her chips. "Moved around a lot."
"Military family?"
"Something like that."
He doesn't push. Just nods and shifts the conversation. "Best place you've lived?"
I watch her sort through the answer, deciding what's safe to share. "There was this town in Colorado. Little place in the mountains. I liked it there."
"Mountains to desert—that's a hell of a change." He takes a bite of his sandwich, chews. "What brought you out here?"
"Long story." She glances at me, quick, then back to Grant. "Short version is I needed a change. Saw a help wanted ad online. Next thing I knew I was driving through the desert at two in the morning wondering what the hell I was doing."
Grant laughs. "And now?"
"Now I'm still wondering." But she's smiling when she says it. "But less often."
"The desert grows on you." He gestures at the shimmering heat with his sandwich. "Or it drives you crazy. Sometimes both."
"Which one are you?"
"Oh, definitely both." That hand-gesture thing again, fingers spreading. "I grew up in Flagstaff. Moved to Phoenix for college, lasted two years before I realized I needed less city, more space. Found this job, figured I'd do it for a year, maybe two." He shakes his head. "That was five years ago."
"You like it?"
"I like the quiet. The space. Weird hours." He grins. "My ex hated it. Kept saying I was wasting my degree working with auto parts in the middle of nowhere."
"What was your degree in?"
"Business management." He says it like it's a punchline. "Real useful when you're explaining to a mechanic why his gasket order's delayed."
Scout laughs—actually laughs, throwing her head back—and the sound hits me in the chest like a fist.
"What about you?" Grant asks. "College?"
"Some." She's quieter now. "Didn't finish. Turned out sitting in lecture halls talking about theoretical business models wasn't really my thing. I'm better with my hands."
"Nothing wrong with that. Half the mechanics I work with have more practical knowledge than any MBA I've met."
"Tell that to my—" She stops. Rewrites mid-sentence. "Tell that to most people."
Grant doesn't miss it. Doesn't push. Just shifts again. "Well, for what it's worth, what you're doing at Ward & Weller—that takes real skill. You can't teach someone to see how a shop actually functions and then fix it. That's instinct."
The sandwich tastes like dust in my mouth. I'm eating it anyway, chewing mechanically, listening to every word while Finn kicks me under the table.
I kick him back. The sun's beating down on all of us, heat radiating off metal chairs, but Scout looks comfortable. Happy, almost.
Like she's not sitting in a parking lot in hundred-degree heat talking to a stranger.
Like she's exactly where she wants to be.
"So what do you do when you're not color-coding parts?" Grant asks.
Scout pauses mid-bite. Thinks about it. "Honestly? Not much. Work. Sleep. Avoid thinking too hard about life choices."
"Sounds perfect."
